


Reprieve

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Shame, Thoughts of Corruption, voyeuristic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes what pleasure he can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reprieve

He could have a whore, of course, or better. As Lord Protector of the Vale he could be guaranteed any woman he wished, expect of course for the only one he desired.

He could have his release in so many ways, with so many number of woman, that the path he chose almost seemed an absurd one. A juvenile one, certainly, and one that he would never confess to. But he justified it to himself as a kind of  _noble_  act (this, despite the fact that the shame she would surely feel if she knew only added to his pleasure).

During the day he would watch her; Petyr was nothing if not an observer. In her time at the Vale Sansa had grown in leaps and bounds, so that the woman he now had at his side was nothing like the girl of King’s Landing. He kept himself restrained, however, granting himself nothing more than hungry gazes and heated kisses. It was best not to spoil it all by rushing in too soon.

He watched her movements, studied her lips, her hands, thought about what her frame looked like under those proper gowns. And in the dark, the drink on his lips, he would indulge.

His door latched, the Gates silent, he would take himself in hand. It was a well he had gone to often in his life, something he was no longer hesitant to do. The fantasies that he stoked himself to were different now, but the act was the same.

Different and somehow better. There was a sharp illicitness to everything about Sansa, mixed with an expectation that this could perhaps  _be_ , that added a tart flavor to it. He thought of everything he wanted to have her do. He thought of her lips, innocent and soft, wrapping themselves about his cock for the first time—hesitant and biting but soiled soon enough. He thought of running his hands down her frame, taking every curve in, before dipping between her legs to find her wet. He thought of fingering her, of stretching her against his cock (now full in his hand, now hot), of feeling her  _break_  for him, of the warmth of her blood.

The fantasies stretched on. Him lifting her skirts to redden her ass, the apologies spilling from her not-so-virginal mouth. Her submitting herself to him, saying that she was his and his only. Her taking a man, only for his money, and him watching from a safe space away, watching Sansa use as he taught her how.

Sometimes Petyr wondered what it would not like if she were to find him here, pleasuring himself to thoughts of her. He could see her blush, could hear her stammer. In his mind she would walk forward, slowly, and her fingers would rest against his, experimentally. He would show her how to stoke him until she knew what to do, and after that she would stink to her knees for him.

He would wind his hand in that Tully red and think about how sweet it was for one of them to bow to him.

On this day it was that thought that brought him off, and he spilled himself into his palm with a low grunt. Coated in himself he indulged in the ultimate shame, bringing his fingers to his lips to taste.

He would kiss her in the morning, his mouth full and open, and all the while he would wonder if she knew.


End file.
